“Seventh Grade”

Gary Soto
In Baseball in April and Other Stories (1990)

On the first day of school, Victor stood in line half an hour

before he came to a wobbly card table. He was handed a
packet of papers and a computer card on which he listed his
one elective, French. He already spoke Spanish and English,
but he thought some day he might travel to France, where it
was cool; not like Fresno, where summer days reached 110
degrees in the shade. There were rivers in Prance, and huge
churches, and fair-skinned people everywhere, the way there
were brown people all around Victor

Besides, Teresa, a girl he had liked since they were in

catechism classes at Saint Theresa’s, was taking French, too.
With any luck they would be in the same class. Teresa is going
to be my girl this year, he promised himself as he left the gym
full of students in their new fall clothes. She was cute. And
good in math, too, Victor thought as he walked down the hall
to his homeroom. He ran into his friend, Michael Torres, by the
water fountain that never turned off.

They shook hands, raza-style, and jerked their heads at one

another in a saludo de vato. “How come you’re making a
face?” asked Victor.

“I ain’t making a face, ese. This is my face.” Michael said

his face had changed during the summer. He had read a GQ
magazine that his older brother had borrowed from the Book
Mobile and noticed that the male models all had the same
look on their faces. They would stand, one arm around a
beautiful woman, and scowl. They would sit at the pool, their
rippled stomachs dark with shadow, and scowl. They would sit
at dinner tables, cool drinks in their hands, and scowl,

“I think it works,” Michael said. He scowled and let his

upper lip quiver. His teeth showed along with the ferocity of
his soul. “Belinda Reyes walked by a while ago and looked at
me,” he said.
 Victor didn’t say anything, though he thought his friend
looked pretty strange. They talked about recent movies,
baseball, their parents, and the horrors of picking grapes in
order to buy their fall clothes. Picking grapes was like living in
Siberia, except hot and more boring.

“What classes are you taking?” Michael said, scowling.

“French. How ‘bout you?”
“Spanish. L ain’t so good at it, even if I’m Mexican."
“I’m not either, but I’m better at it than math, that’s for
sure.”

A tiny, three-beat bell propelled students to their

homerooms. The two friends socked each other in the arm
and went their ways, Victor thinking, man, that’s weird.
Michael thinks making a face makes him handsome.

On the way to his homeroom, Victor tried a scowl. He felt

foolish, until out of the corner of his eye he saw a girl looking
at hint Umm, he thought, maybe it does work. He scowled
with greater conviction.

In the homeroom, roll was taken, emergency cards were

passed out, and they were given a bulletin to take home to
their parents. The principal, Mr. Belton, spoke over the
crackling loudspeaker, welcoming the students to a new
year, new experiences, and new friendships. The students
squirmed in their chairs and ignored him, they were anxious to
go to first period. Victor sat calmly, thinking of Teresa, who sat
two rows away, reading a paperback novel. This would be his
lucky year. She was in his homeroom, and would probably be
in his English and math classes. And, of course, French.

The bell rang for first period, and the students herded
noisily through the door. Only Teresa lingered, talking with the
homeroom teacher.

“So you think I should talk to Mrs. Gaines?” she asked the
teacher. “She would know about ballet?”

“She would be a good bet,” the teacher said. Then

added, “Or the gym teacher, Mrs. Garza."
 Victor lingered, keeping his head down and staring at his
desk. He wanted to leave when she did so he could bump
into her and say something clever.

He watched her on the sly. As she turned to leave, he

stood up and hurried to the door, where he managed to
catch her eye. She smiled and said, “Hi, Victor."

He smiled back and said, “Yeah, that's me.” His brown face
blushed. Why hadn’t he said, “Hi, Teresa,” or "How was your
summer?” or something nice.

As Teresa walked down the hall, Victor walked the other

way, looking back, admiring how gracefully she walked, one
foot in front of the other. So much for being in the same class,
he thought. As he trudged to English, he practiced scowling.

In English they reviewed the parts of speech. Mr. Lucas, a

portly man, waddled down the aisle, asking, “What is a
noun?”

“A person, place, or thing,” said the class in unison.

Yes, now somebody give mean example of a person--you,

Victor Rodriguez.”

"Teresa,” Victor said automatically. Some of the girls

giggled. They knew he had a crush on Teresa. He felt himself
blushing again.

“Correct,” Mr. Lucas said. “Now provide me with a place.”

Mr. Lucas called on a freckled kid who answered,

“Teresa’s house with a kitchen full of big brothers.”

After English, Victor had math, his weakest subject. He sat

in the back by the window, hoping that he would not be
called on. Victor understood most of the problems, but some
of the stuff looked like the teacher made it up as she went
along. It was confusing, like the inside of a watch.

After math he had a fifteen-minute break, then social

studies, and finally lunch. He bought a tuna casserole with
buttered rolls, some fruit cocktail, and milk. He sat with
Michael, who practiced scowling between bites,

Girls walked by and looked at him, “See what I mean,

Vic?” Michael scowled. "They love it.”

Yeah, I guess so.

They ate slowly, Victor scanning the horizon for a glimpse

of Teresa. He didn’t see her. She must have brought lunch, he
thought, and is eating outside. Victor scraped his plate and
left Michael, who was busy scowling at a girl two tables
away.

The small, triangle-shaped campus bustled with students

talking about their new classes. Everyone was in a sunny
mood. Victor hurried to the bag lunch area, where he sat
down and opened his math book. He moved his lips as if he
were reading, but his mind was somewhere else. He raised his
eyes slowly and looked around. No Teresa.

He lowered his eyes, pretending to study, then looked

slowly to the left. No Teresa. He turned a page in the book
and stared at some math problems that scared him because
he knew he would have to do them eventually. He looked at
the right. Still no sign of her. He stretched out lazily in an
attempt to disguise his snooping.

Then he saw her. She was sitting with a girlfriend under a

plum tree. Victor moved to a table near her and
daydreamed about taking her to a movie. When the bell
sounded, Teresa looked up, and their eyes met. She smiled
sweetly and gathered her books. Her next class was French,
same as Victor’s.

They were among the last students to arrive in class, so all

the good desks in the back had already been taken. Victor
was forced to sit near the front, a few desks away from
Teresa, while Mr. Bueller wrote French words on the
chalkboard. The bell rang, and Mr. Bueller wiped his hands,
turned to the class, and said, “Bonjour.”

“Bonjour,” braved a few students.

 “Bonjour” Victor whispered. He wondered if Teresa heard
him.

Mr. Bueller said that if the students studied hard, at the end
of the year they could go to France and be understood by
the populace.

One kid raised his hand and asked, “‘What’s ‘populace’?”

"The people, the people of France.”

Mr. Bueller asked if anyone knew French. Victor raised his

hand, wanting to impress Teresa. The teacher beamed and
said, “Tres bien. Parlez-vous francais?”

Victor didn’t know what to say. The teacher wet his lips
and asked something else in French. The room grew silent.
Victor felt all eyes staring at him. He tried to bluff his way out
by making noises that sounded French.

“La me vave me con le grandma,” he said uncertainly.

Mr. Bueller, wrinkling his face in curiosity, asked him to

speak up.

Great rosebushes of red bloomed on Victor’s cheeks. A

river of nervous sweat ran down his palms. He felt awful.
Teresa sat a few desks away, no doubt thinking he was a fool.
Without looking at Mr. Bueller, Victor mumbled, ‘Frenchie oh
wewe gee in September.”

Mr. Bueller asked Victor to repeat what he said.

“Frenchie oh wewe gee in September," Victor repeated.

Mr. Bueller understood that the boy didn’t know French

and turned away. He walked to the blackboard and pointed
to the words on the board with his steel-edged ruler.

"Le bateau,” he sang.

“Le bateau,” the students repeated.

"Le bateau est sur l’eau,” he sang.

 “Le bateau est sur l’eau.”

Victor was too weak from failure to join the class. He stared
at the board and wished he had taken Spanish, not French.
Better yet, he wished he could start his life over. He had never
been so embarrassed. He bit his thumb until he tore off a sliver
of skin.

The bell sounded for fifth period, and Victor shot out of the
room, avoiding the stares of the other kids, but had to return
for his math book. He looked sheepishly at the teacher, who
was erasing the board, then widened his eyes in terror at
Teresa who stood in front of him. “I didn’t know you knew
French,”she said. “That was good.”

Mr. Bueller looked at Victor, and Victor looked back. Oh

please, don’t say anything, Victor pleaded with his eyes. I’ll
wash your car, mow your lawn, walk your dog--anything! I'll
be your best student, and I’ll clean your erasers after school.

Mr. Bueller shuffled through the papers on his desk, He

smiled and hummed as he sat down to work. He
remembered his college years when he dated a girlfri0end in
borrowed cars. She thought he was rich because each time
he picked her up he had a different car. It was fun until he
had spent all his money on her and had to write home to his
parents because he was broke.

Victor couldn’t stand to look at Teresa. He was sweaty with

shame. “Yeah, well, I picked up a few things from movies and
books and stuff like that.” They left the class together. Teresa
asked him if he would help her with her French.

"Sure, anytime,” Victor said.

“I won’t be bothering you, will I?”

"Oh no, I like being bothered.”

“Bonjour,”Teresa said, leaving him outside her next class.

She smiled and pushed wisps of hair from her face.

"Yeah, right, bonjour,” Victor said. He turned and headed

to his class. The rosebuds of shame on his face became
bouquets of love. Teresa is a great girl, he thought. And Mr.
Bueller is a good guy.

He raced to metal shop. After metal shop there was

biology, and after biology a long sprint to the public library,
where he checked out three French textbooks.

He was going to like seventh grade.

loj.loswego.k12.or.us/schultzj/LA/Short%20Story/7th%20Grade.pdf